


Cargo

by rayvanfox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fill for civilisationsofpurethought in the johnlock challenges gift exchange, November 2012.<br/>the prompt was, Parentlock: vengeful Moran kidnaps Hamish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cargo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [civilisationsofpurethought](https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilisationsofpurethought/gifts).



> thanks to my amazing beta, [homosociallyyours](http://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours).

Ten long years, and now this. It’s so sweet, it almost hurts. Maximum pain for others, sweet release for me. I vowed vengeance on that rooftop, steeped in his blood, and by the end of today I will have brought the killer of my Jim to his knees. It’s the suffering, not the death, that I avenge. That first week I barely made it out alive. I shadowed the ‘flatmate’, feeding my own pain with his. It was the only thing that took my finger off the trigger, which kept getting pointed at either myself or him, knowing his loss was comparable to mine. **  
  
**Though to be honest, no one was like Jim, not even that tosser with the ear hat.  Nothing could compare to Jim’s twisted mind and his fluid body, his domination over the world of crime, his domination over me. He had me so very whipped and loving every second of it. I’d do anything for him. And that meant more than it should because of the kind of ‘anything’ he could come up with... **  
  
**And so, I do this for him. I knew, when i finally figured out the jump was a fake, that I needed to do something. There was supposed to be a trade, a life for a life, and that idiot genius cheated. Therefore, he needed to suffer. But he was on the warpath and I would soon be in the line of fire. I got myself nicked for armed robbery and played the waiting game. For far too long. Nearly went insane on the inside, hearing about the methodical takedown of Jim’s entire regime, itching for payback. **  
  
**But now I know the wait was necessary for all of this to unfold so perfectly. Because Jim knew that superior bastard’s weakness from the very start. I watched the full meaning of it dawn on him in the pool, my rifle trained first on the doctor, then the detective. Fire shows our priorities, and It was a two-way street with them. Each was the other’s achilles heel. How perfect. And when I got out of the nick and realised there was a third, a little tyke they both doted on to extremity...well. It was like Christmas. Like I said, maximum pain for others, sweet release for me. It was going to be such a pleasure to take them both apart as if by remote control. **  
  
**And there the little beggar is, tied up in the corner of the van, eyes big and staring, but not with fear, not yet. He doesn’t get the game yet. He doesn’t know about the promise Jim made, the punishment his dads deserve. He doesn’t get the fact that he is the heart that will be burned right out of them both. **  
  
**I can’t tell which one of them I despise more right now, the one who didn’t have to die, or the one who didn’t have to suffer. Or at least, not for long. Even before his beloved consultant came back to him, he found some bird who would take care of him, let him get up her skirt, give him a son. I would have put a bullet in her brain, just to see him fall apart again, but her own body betrayed her before I got a chance. Wish I could have watched. **  
  
**Well, doctor, third time’s a charm, eh? I’ll set the spark that will cause you to burn in a fire of your own making. And then I’ll watch your ‘colleague’ implode as he witnesses his blogger self-immolate and crumble to ash, knowing there is nothing he can do, but everything that he could have done, to save you both. That is my reward. And all it will take is to make you watch your little laddie die. **  
  
**Funny, to look at him, he looks like he’s the tall one’s. Pale skin, dark hair, big eyes, lanky limbs. Did the good doctor go out and find a female version of his detective to shag? Showing his cards a bit too much, perhaps? Jesus, what a twat, getting himself a miniature Holmes. **  
  
**And here is this boyo, trying his best to live up to the name. Just eight and already perfecting that haughty stare of his dad’s. No, that’s the name for the short one. His ‘papa’. Lord, these sentimental fools.  One’s supposed to be a sociopath, the other, an army captain. Those sods aren’t fooling anyone. **  
  
**It was so easy, I was embarrassed for them. It’s as if they’ve learned nothing, or have gotten soft. They let the child go to school. Not hard to ingratiate yourself at one of those if you have a kiddie as a prop, and even tykes aren’t as hard to come by as you’d think. Little Jamie’s da offer’s you a ride home and you think nothing of it. Neither do the teachers. Except that Little Jamie lives with his mam, who doesn’t even know I’m out of the clink. I chuckled the whole time, couldn’t help myself. **  
  
**Ah, fuck it. Might as well get the party started. **  
  
  
**\-- **  
  
  
**He thinks because I’m Dad’s, I’m stupid. He’s an idiot. I don’t even hardly remember when Papa came home, that’s how young I was. I’m as much his as anybody’s. And if he thinks Papa would waste the chance to have a live-in pupil he could mold from the start, he clearly doesn’t exercise his brain enough. I bet he thinks he’s cleverer than me. I bet he doesn’t think much of Dad, either. Cuz that’s a huge mistake. **  
  
**I’m not even worried a little bit. (Well, maybe a little bit) He seems a bit off in the head and that makes figuring out the variables a lot harder. It’s cuz he loves his weapons so much. Talks to them, even. Calls them his sweetheart. And cuz of the case of semtex sitting a few feet from me. Not worried, though. Just nervous. There’s a difference. **  
  
**He hasn’t done anything much yet. Just scooped me up (I was caught off guard, not being as observant as I should...Papa will be upset) and tied me down. And now we are just waiting. I don’t know what for, though. Dad should be off work at the surgery by now, on his way home. Papa will have missed me first, but I bet he didn’t tell Dad. He doesn’t like to worry him. He’s really gentle with Dad’s feelings. (He said once it was because he had to spend a long time being very rough with them, and it was enough for a lifetime.) Dad sometimes hates it, though. Usually when something’s been kept from him. If Papa didn’t text Dad at work when I didn’t come home, he’s bound for an earful when Dad finds out. I’m glad I won’t be there for that. But then again, if I was there, it wouldn’t happen... **  
  
**How did i get myself here? I was so stupid! (Not stupid, none of us is stupid, I just wasn’t thinking. I was seeing, but not observing. God, I hate Papa’s ‘you-can-do-better’ face...I’m so going to get that when I get home. If...no, _when_.) **  
  
**Well, I’m not helping anything by getting upset with myself. I should be figuring out how to escape. Or how to get a message to Dad and Papa. Or maybe Uncle Greg, if all else fails. I can work my tongue between and around my lips and get the tank tape across my mouth wet enough to unglue, that won’t take long. The hard part will be working these knots free. Isn’t the word for this hogtied? No, that’s when your arms and legs are pulled behind you and strung together. Calf-tied? That might be only three limbs at once... Anyway, the lucky part is my hands and feet are in the same place, bound by the same rope. Somehow there must be a way to loosen and undo it. Dad would be impressed with the knots, Papa, with the rope. The first, like they learn in the navy, the second, like the stuff Papa keeps between the mattress and headboard of their bed, where he thinks I haven’t found it. At least it’s sort of soft, not scratchy, though I think it might slip tighter than another type would. Maybe I can at least loosen it some, just to have the possibility of slipping out when the moment comes.... **  
  
  
**\-- **  
  
  
**It was quite possibly the most frightening day of my life. And that’s saying something. **  
  
**The fear started when I walked in the door of the flat to Sherlock sporting the most hangdog look I’d ever seen, his limbs caught in a manic pace across the room. My mouth went dry like only a father’s can and the question ‘where’s Hamish’ didn’t even make it out of my mouth before he was on his knees in front of me, his face buried in my jumper. My hands went to the back of his head of their own accord, cradling and soothing the panic, but I was tempted to sharply pull his head backwards until he looked me in the eye and told me what he’d done. Or, more likely, what he hadn’t done. When it came to Hamish it was almost always something he’d forgotten. **  
  
**But it was Tuesday. Hamish always walked home from school with his mates on Tuesdays. He’d asked, repeatedly, begged almost, and we’d assented on a trial basis. And with the stipulation that he was not to be late without calling. **  
  
**He was late. Very late. **  
  
**Sherlock, with the fingers of one hand curling around the hem of my jumper, held up his phone with the other to show me a text message from a blocked number that said ‘*pip* wait for it...’ My knees buckled. **  
  
**Then my phone rang. The number was also blocked. I answered it on speaker but barely had voice enough to say ‘hello’. ****  
  
“Dad?” ****  
  
“Hamish?? Where are you, are you all right?” ****  
  
“I’m supposed to say: I’m not hurt. Not yet. He says he’s going to ‘burn’ me, but semtex doesn’t burn, does it?” **  
  
**Sherlock’s eyes were wide on mine, he’d already been texting--to Lestrade, I assumed--but his attention was caught at that. Hamish was not speaking from a script so this wasn’t the same game as before, but I had no idea how to play this one, or learn the rules fast enough. I was too panicked to even try, so Sherlock took over. ****  
  
“No, it doesn’t, son. It explodes. Remember how we learned about that?” ****  
  
“...I remember roping it to all four wheels of Uncle Mycroft’s mpv and triggering it from temple station.” **  
  
** _They’ve never experimented with Semtex, I wouldn’t let them. And Mycroft doesn’t have an mpv._ ****  
  
“Good. That’s right.” _Is it code? How do they have a code?_ **“** Made your heart race, didn’t it?” ****  
  
“...Yeah...Papa?” ****  
  
“Yes, my love.” ****  
  
“He won’t kill you, will he?” ****  
  
“I doubt it, Hamish. He wants to see me suffer. That’s why he took you. He hopes I’ll do it myself if you...are hurt.” ****  
  
“You won’t kill yourself though. Will you?” ****  
  
“No.” ****  
  
“Neither will Dad?” ****  
  
“I won’t let that happen either.” ****  
  
“Just me, then.” ****  
  
“That’s his plan, obviously.” ****  
  
“That’s good.” **  
  
**The rising horror that had silenced me throughout this exchange finally burst into outrage. “No, it’s not! Hamish, honey, we won’t let it happen.” ****  
  
“He says you’ll have no choice. If you interfere, everyone dies. I don’t want that. He’s good with a rifle and scope, dad.” **  
  
**Sherlock perked up again. “You know this?” ****  
  
“Jamie says so. He’s seen--Ow!” **  
  
** _Oh my God, what was that?_ **“** You all right? Hamish??” ****  
  
“Yeah. Even snub nose pistols are heavy.” ****  
  
“Did you just pistol whip my son, you bastard?!?” ****  
  
“John.” Sherlock laid a hand on my shoulder, at the base of my neck, and squeezed. I let out a long, slow breath. “Hamish, darling, will you ask your captor if he would get on the phone for a moment? There’s a good boy.” **  
  
**Sherlock’s voice was like butter. It spread and melted across my frayed nerves, and I consoled myself with the belief that Hamish could hear it on the other end of the line, dripping with care for him. Not quite as good as cleaning up whatever injury might have been inflicted, but it had always been effective in calming him. Which was all we could hope to do at the moment. ****  
  
“...He won’t, Papa. I’m sorry. He says I have to get off now. He says we will call back later. I don’t want to hang up, but he’s holding the phone because--” ****  
  
“Because your hands are tied together at your ankles, I know, Mish. Remember to breathe, all right?” ****  
  
“Yeah, okay.” ****  
  
“I love you, hon. Your dad and I will find you.” ****  
  
“Don’t follow us. He’ll blow up everyone--” **  
  
**His voice was getting panicky and I ached to hug him. “Hamish, It’s all right, calm down. You are going to be fine. We’ll make him give you back to us. Don’t worry.” ****  
  
“Okay, I lo--” The phone call ended. **  
  
**I just stared at the display blinking 2:11, hoping that was enough time for Lestrade to get a trace. ****  
  
“Lestrade, did you get it?” Sherlock was already up and pacing, rapid-fire reasoning on full throttle. I was still on my knees. “No matter. Check Hamish’s school’s records for a boy called Jamie, or James. His class. Find anything you can about his father, if he’s listed. Also, put out an alert for a Black mpv, most likely with no windows in back. Just get a location, don’t follow it. They’ll move, but we can’t risk him noticing. I’ll get Mycroft’s surveillance on it immediately. ****  
“Start looking near Temple station?” I ventured a guess, after replaying the conversation in my head. ****  
  
“No, John. He wasn’t giving location, he was saying the man had a gun to his head.” ****  
  
“Oh, God.” ****  
  
“‘Roped’, ‘all four wheels’, he’s tied as I mentioned. ‘Uncle Mycroft’s mpv’, I believe, was the only location information he could give us. Black like all of Mycroft’s cars. ‘triggered’ and ‘temple station’ were about his being threatened with a firearm. He’s scared, John. He also only has so much opportunity for observation in the back of a stationary minibus. He needed to tell us his own predicament, not how to find him. I don’t fault him for that. He tried. He mentioned the boy that the man is affiliated with.” ****  
  
“How do you know that?” ****  
  
“Because the idiot hurt him for mentioning the name.” **  
  
**My blood boiled all over again, thinking about it. “I will kill him. I will tear him limb from limb if he hurts Hamish at all...” ****  
  
“John, focus. I need you to call Mycroft.” ****  
  
“Can’t even attempt to contact him yourself when your son’s life is in danger?” ****  
  
“Don’t. I’m busy. Thinking.” **  
  
**I rolled my eyes but didn’t hesitate to get Mycroft on the line and tell him what we knew. His voice got shaky and I cringed at the implication of that. His affection for our boy had always seemed so reluctant. Clearly, it was genuine, if reserved. The which knowledge somehow made me less functional than previously, which was barely holding it together. **  
  
**I sort of tuned out for a bit as Sherlock gathered and synthesised the data he received from Lestrade and Mycroft, homing in on the van and trying to anticipate the kidnapper’s next move. I perked up when Lestrade called about the school records, having found a Jamie Stewart with an estranged father on file by the name of S. Moran. The information meant nothing to me, but Sherlock seemed mightily intrigued, so I watched him jump into his mind palace, his eyes scanning back and forth as if he were reading something off the screen of his own mind. ****  
  
“S. Moran...Sebastian Moran. Ex-IRA. Hamish was right, he’s a sharpshooter. A sniper. Moriarty’s right hand man, before the fall. I tracked intel on him for months after, was never able to find him.” ****  
  
“Seems he just got out of prison, no wonder there was such a long lull.” ****  
  
“Thank you, Lestrade.” ****  
  
“I’ve waited years for your thanks, Sherlock. Now I don’t want it. You can have whatever and whoever you need, just thank me by getting Hamish back to us safe and sound.” **  
  
**That caught in my throat. Greg is a good friend to all of us, Hamish even calls him Uncle, but I’d never really thought about how we might be all he’s got now he’s divorced, and that his fondness for Hamish might actually be that of a family member. I might need to rethink how we celebrate the holidays to more incorporate Greg and Mycroft into Mish’s life. **  
  
**That is, of course, if we can _save_ Mish’s life... **  
  
**Fear like I’ve never felt it before clamped down on my chest and throat and I lost the ability to focus on anything. I heard Sherlock mention a sighting of the mpv and felt him clap my gun into my hand and tug me out the door. I followed him blindly into a cab and tried to stabilise my pulse, to find the inner coil of adrenalised anger that I can loosen and utilise in times of danger. I spent the cab ride whipping myself into shape with it while trying to follow Sherlock’s logic about the plan to stop Moran and retrieve Hamish safely. **  
  
**The only part I caught was that they gave me a position from which I could cover Sherlock and was given permission to shoot if necessary. And that’s all I needed to know. **  
  
  
**\-- **  
  
  
**It wasn’t an elaborate plan, I’m not a fool. I wouldn’t have let Hamish be in any more serious danger than he had been all afternoon. I definitely would have allowed a good amount of time to drawing Moran out, getting more of his story, piecing together the last bits of the puzzle I had worked on for so long, years ago. There were quite possibly a few of Moriarty’s agents still in the field in places I’d failed to check. Granted, none of them were in a position to do much of anything, what with all supply and communication lines completely destroyed. I was as thorough as I could have been, given the restraints of time, energy and manpower. And the fact that I wasn’t working at peak performance during that time. Without John. **  
  
**But the point is, even with the life of our son at stake, (and therefore John’s ability to continue on, which held my sanity in the balance) I knew there was an interesting and subtle game to play in order to use Col. S. Moran to his maximum potential. John seems to have been unable to care less about such things. **  
  
**We had already located the vehicle and were monitoring it when the second call came. He was embarrassingly heavy-handed, this assassin we were dealing with. Nothing like James Moriarty. Then again, no one is, nor will ever be. He was unique in his abilities. Even I can admit he had talents and skills and inclinations that I will never have. Would never cultivate. Can’t conceive of desiring, really. But his brilliance is unparalleled. Was. His particular brilliance was unparalleled. As my own special qualities should never be put in the same category as his, we cannot actually compare... (okay, I’ll let this go and get back to the point.) **  
  
**The point is, I had the whole situation well in hand, and then the call came in on my phone. John was more affected than I have ever seen him, except once (well, twice. My exit and my return). The bloody tosser made Hamish say the same thing Moriarty had John say in the pool. ****  
  
“This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock. Bet you never saw this coming. What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear... I can stop him whenever I like. I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart.” **  
  
**It was disconcerting to hear it out of Mish’s mouth, obviously. Even more so than it was to hear John say it originally because I couldn’t look at Hamish and deduce whether he was all right. He managed to get through it bravely enough, of which I was proud. I will admit I didn’t react well to the experience, but it made John fall apart. Not surprising, really, but definitely inopportune. I was, at the time, glad to have given him the job of backup. Were anything to go awry, John would have a vantage point from which to take Moran down. That still seemed most feasible and practical for both the plan and his state of mind. **  
  
**Of course, Moran’s game involved both semtex and a rooftop. Thankfully not St. Bart’s. My only deduction as to why would be that he himself was too affected by that location to carry out his revenge there, no matter how fitting it might have been. Of course, I doubt he’d have thought through the fact that it would have been too easy to guess his plan had he chosen that place, though maybe I am underestimating him slightly. **  
  
**No, I don’t think I am, because he did choose the roof of the building that housed Carl Powers’s pool. He must have been disappointed it hadn’t blown up the last time we’d gathered there. So anticlimactic, that meeting. Had the explosive not been strapped to my son this time, I too would have appreciated the catharsis of seeing the place destroyed. **  
  
**Long story short, I had strategically placed both Lestrade’s and Mycroft’s men and women around the building long before Moran had gotten Hamish up to the roof. And then I stepped out onto the next rooftop over. I was wearing a two-way radio earpiece, wired to Lestrade and Mycroft for logistical reasons, and to John in hopes that, if he could follow what was happening, he wouldn’t overreact. **  
  
**I will say this: today was the only time in our lives that I have overestimated John’s ability to do anything. Anything. And I underestimated something as well: his she-bearlike propensity to act in accordance with the protective instinct. I should have known better. He had given me evidence from the very beginning of this, and I simply wouldn’t account for it like I should have... **  
  
**Is it even necessary to explain? **  
  
**Very well. **  
  
**When I showed myself, Moran and I both moved toward the edges of our buildings to confront each other, he dragging Hamish along with him, gun to his head, I with my hands up to show I was unarmed. There wasn’t more than four feet between the two ledges and we could easily hear each other. Moran shifted his aim from Hamish’s head to my chest. Interesting. I was looking forward to subtly instructing Mish in how to deal with a criminal like this, but we had barely struck up a conversation before John spoke into my ear. ****  
  
“Sherlock, move a pace to your left.” I obliged slowly so as to make Moran follow me with his gun hand but not his body, keeping John’s view open. No sooner had I fully shifted than a familiar sounding shot rang out. It knocked Hamish back as well as Moran and for a split second I feared it had hit the boy. However, no explosion was forthcoming, so that was clearly not the case. **  
  
**In that fearful split second, however, my instincts took over and had me hurtling myself over the gap, reaching for Hamish, cursing John and his confidence in his crack shot skills. Hamish was no longer in Moran’s grasp, and, inexplicably, no longer bound at the wrists, so he threw himself into my arms. I tore the semtex pack off him and threw it across the roof, then he and I clutched each other tightly as we looked down upon the injured man and decided what to do with him. John had caught him in the shoulder and he was bleeding out quickly. I wasn’t certain medical assistance would be in time to save him, but it was possible. Uniforms and plain clothes were already swarming up stairwells and onto the roof, I could hear the shouted orders and swearing over the earpiece, but we had a minute to ourselves at least. **  
  
**What was said and done in that minute is irrelevant, however. **  
  
  
**\-- **  
  
  
**So, Papa tried to save me, but Dad beat him to it. Which is interesting because they both have taught me that violence is not the way to solve problems. I guess this was a special case, though. More evidence for that would be how Papa handled Mr. Moran after he was shot. But I promised we wouldn’t talk about that. **  
  
**Anyway, we stood there on the roof just the two of us for a bit. My mind was so full of things to figure out and understand I couldn’t help but ask him a few questions. ****  
  
“He wanted to die, didn’t he, Papa? That was part of his strategy, wasn’t it?” ****  
  
“It was definitely something he had factored into the equation, don’t you think? The probability of coming out of this sort of situation alive was slim, was it not?” ****  
  
“Yes... Was that something you had factored in too?” ****  
  
“His death? Yes, I--” ****  
  
“No, yours.” ****  
  
“Ah...well, several of the possible scenarios could have had that outcome, yes.” ****  
  
“You told me you wouldn’t.” ****  
  
“I told you I wouldn’t take my own life, love. There is a difference.” ****  
  
“Yeah, I guess. I didn’t think of that. Seems like Dad did, though.” ****  
  
“Yes it does.” ****  
  
“He loves you more than anything, you know.” ****  
  
“Not more than you, son.” ****  
  
“Not less.” **  
  
**He leaned down to kiss the top of my head, then. We were still hugging each other tight. Papa isn’t cuddly with me at all. Not like Dad is. And I almost never see him and Dad be affectionate, not even hugging. But at that moment it wasn’t just me holding on. Maybe it was to keep him from trembling too. ****  
  
“No, I expect not.” ****  
  
“You love him very much too, though, don’t you?” ****  
  
“Of course, Hamish, you know that.” ****  
  
“Yes, but you would have been willing to die to save me.” ****  
  
“Well, yes. Because I love you just as much. I don’t see wh--” ****  
  
“And I thought about it a long time today, and decided if either you or Dad were in danger of dying, I would make sure it was me instead.” ****  
  
“Oh, Hamish, my precious boy, you know that would--” ****  
  
“So I guess Dad shot early to save both of us from ourselves, huh Papa?” ****  
  
“Hm. You might be right about that, Mish. I believe that to be a sound deduction you just made.” ****  
  
“Thanks.” I squeezed his waist a little harder, his arm on my shoulder tightened. “You know, I’m glad we’re not dead.” **  
  
**He made a sort of strangled chuckle sound. “Me too, hon. Maybe we should thank Dad for that, what do you say? He’ll be here in a moment.” **  
  
**Dad burst onto the rooftop yelling. I don’t think it was out of anger, though. Maybe stress. ****  
  
“Jesus! My heart stopped twice over thinking I’d lose you both off the edge... ** _Come here!_** **”  
  
** It was an order I was more than willing to obey. I ran to hug him as he shook his head with his eyes and lips shut tight. **  
  
**I’m too big for it, but he picked me up anyway to wrap me in a big bear hug. I didn’t protest. I did make a tiny yelp of surprise when Papa sandwiched me from behind and hugged Dad tight. It was really good to be cuddled all around like that, so I tried to wait until I felt really squashed before I started wriggling. ****  
  
“You’re an idiot.” Papa murmured into Dad’s ear. Hearing that made him laugh one loud ‘ha!’ ****  
  
“No more than you are, you lunatic. When you jumped across that gap...” Dad’s voice went hoarse and seemed to stop working. **  
  
**Papa took me from Dad’s arms and set me down, then folded Dad in his own arms, within his coat, under his chin. Dad was shaking and making soft noises. I stayed close and held onto his pant leg. ****  
  
“John, remember that first night, our first night together? Chasing that cabbie? We both made jumps like that one. Even though you thought you had a dodgy leg. It was fine.” ****  
  
“I know, it looked fine. I just can’t...you on a rooftop, that image will never leave. You know it won’t.” ****  
  
“Ssshhhh.... It’s all right. Let this one replace it, my heart.” Papa's voice was the gentlest I've ever heard it, and Dad responded by sniffing loudly and nodding formally. Then he placed a quick kiss on Papa’s neck. Papa took Dad’s head in his hands and wiped across his cheeks with his thumbs. Then he planted a firm kiss on Dad’s forehead. Like he does to take my temperature when I’m sick. I was mesmerised by watching them, until Papa broke the spell by addressing me in a businesslike manner. ****  
  
“Hamish, my boy, come hug your dad. And don’t let go until I return. I must speak with Uncle Greg, but it won’t take a moment.” **  
  
**I did so, even let Dad pick me up again and snuggle his nose into my neck, which tickled, but I kinda liked it. He called me his ‘precious boy’ which he doesn’t do much anymore. I was a bit overcome and responded by kissing his jaw. He winked at me, which means he won’t tell anyone I was acting so young. **  
  
**I hoped Dad wasn’t in too much trouble, so I whispered encouragement in his ear. I even used one of my new favorite words. “I’m glad you took the shot when you did, Daddy. Papa and I could have gotten ourselves in a predicament.” He chuckled and squeezed me tight, our cheeks together, as we watched Papa and Uncle Greg. ****  
  
“Detective Inspector Uncle, I am going to take Dad Watson and the boy Hamish home now, to curl up in bed with mugs of hot chocolate and a good book. You are not to disturb us until sometime late tomorrow, when we will be happy to give our statements. Until then, good luck with all this. Good night.” ****  
  
“Good night, Papa Holmes. I will ring you up tomorrow and arrange to stop by Baker Street. No need to come in.” He shook Papa’s hand, then waved and blew a kiss in our direction. I grinned goofily and waved back, Dad nodded, his hands full from holding me. I was looking forward to his visit. Even official business is fun with Uncle Greg. **  
  
**When Papa came back to us, I asked him one last question. “Which book will we read in your bed?” ****  
  
“Whichever you want, son.” He took me from Dad’s arms and placed me on the ground, but immediately took hold of my hand. **  
  
**I took hold of one of Dad’s hands too and led them away. “May we please read _The Hobbit_?” **  
  
**Dad chuckled. “Again?” ****  
  
“There and Back Again. A marvelous choice, young man.” Papa sounded oddly pleased. ****  
  
“Will you both do the voices then, _pleaaase_??” Papa scoffed, but not very seriously. ****  
  
“Our boy did just narrowly escape death at the hands of a revenge-crazed assassin, Sherlock.” ****  
  
“Very well. But Hamish, won’t you assist us? Neither Dad nor I can do justice to you-know-who.” ****  
  
I made them both laugh when I took up the challenge. “Yesssss my preciousssssssss....”

 


End file.
